Perspective
by bandj4ever
Summary: Hutch gains a different perspective of his partner.


_Authors' note: This is just a bit of fun. As you'll guess when you read this, we're not American but we hope we can all join in the celebration of this special season. Our first S&H fanfic. Hope it makes you smile. Spelling-Goldberg holds all rights to the characters and this is made for entertainment purposes only. Please enjoy. B and J._

**Perspective**

"Hey, Hutch! Ya know. It's Thanksgiving!"

It never ceased to amaze Hutch how perceptive Starsky could be especially when it came to stating the obvious. Hutch hadn't forgotten it was Thanksgiving. How could he? It was the very reason they were in this rather unfortunate predicament.

"So," Starsky persisted. "What are you thankful for? Huh? Huh? Tell me."

"Ease up, will you? We've got bigger issues. I'm thinking, here."

If his partner had asked the question a few minutes ago, Hutch might have given a different answer. Just five minutes ago they were driving a dirt road in the hills out from Bay City, Hutch thinking of his latest girlfriend, Angie, who had given them both the invite to share Thanksgiving with her folks. Fresh love always brought on that 'take on the world' optimism and in his mellow, feeling dreamy, right in the spirit of the season mood, Hutch's answer might have been more prosaic. Food. Freedom. Friends. All in abundance. At this very moment, he was thankful for more down-to-earth items.

"What's bigger than being thankful for being alive. Huh? It's a matter of perspective, Hutch. Come on. Help me out. Huh?"

Hutch looked upwards, craning his neck. It was a move of his head Hutch didn't take lightly. There was something to be said for perspective. Hutch had a view of his partner he didn't normally have; at least, not from the two-feet-on-the-ground, face-to-face kind of aspect.

Starsky was draped precariously over a flagpole, which was about the thickness of a baseball bat and came out from the barn at the angle of a waving arm. He was balanced over his abdomen, one foot stretched so the toe of his blue adidas touched the wall of the barn. His other foot grappled with free space a whisker above Hutch's face.

And Hutch was directly beneath him. Looking up. _And something didn't sound right._ He was sure of it. Was it the sound of Starsky's vowels?

"Okay. For starters, I'm thankful we could reach this flagpole. Does that satisfy you?"

Starsky sighed in a long, drawn-out, down-tone way, like he'd scored the mother of all hot dogs. Ketchup, mustard, mayo, pickles. The works.

"This is a nice pole. This is a very nice pole."

Hutch straddled two guy wires of the same flagpole monkey-fashion, his legs and arms wrapped around each other to keep steady. At least he was upright, resisting gravity that threatened to slide him into the side of the barn.

"You know," Starsky continued. "I'm thankful that huge duck down there can't fly. Did you hear that thing? Did you see what that thing _did_?"

It wasn't in the past tense. The bird was still making enough noise to raise the county dead. Raucous. Piercing. Loud. Take your pick. Only it wasn't a duck. Ducks can fly and so could this to some extent if it wanted to badly enough and it sounded like it did. Its white head was raised, stretched until it might have snapped its own neck, its wings raised to beat the space between it and them, working its gullet like an organ grinder, and sounding every bit as agonizing to the ears as a car compactor.

And the worst part, it wasn't alone. There were at least twenty of them. All concerned with who was on their territory.

"It's a gander, Stark. An Embden, to be precise. He sure went you. Doolittle, you're not. Uh, don't kick. Careful with your free foot."

Hutch watched as Starsky's adidas waved hypnotically before his eyes, threatening to either knock him off his perch or to land squarely in his face one of those by-products of raising geese that was squashed into the tread. The offending article looked very much the consistency of a fried egg but didn't evoke the same response in his salivary glands.

"Hey, did you know," Starsky enthused. "Twenty-one million turkeys will be eaten today in our fair country. In fact, this minute. While I speak. And that does not include duck, goose and chicken. Only turkey. What do you think of that, huh? Hutch, what else? Come on. Thankful. Think thankful."

"They missed one. Think how this could have been avoided if whoever owns this place had eaten that one down there."

Hutch's gaze searched the yard again for any sign of the owners. They'd come up the drive only because his girlfriend had said to turn in at the place with the Australian eucalypts. Only she didn't mention all the drives along the five-mile stretch had Australian eucalypts.

Smoke lazed from the chimney where three generations of their fellow Americans might have given thanks and the smell of one bird already cooking was welcoming enough but no-one had answered their knock when they'd tried, earlier. The door to the barn was barred and bolted, and the band of geese on guard had ambushed the pair between them and the car in a manner that hinted they were not going to take prisoners.

The reflex reaction had been to find a quick way out and that had been up.

"That's not thankful, Hutch."

"One of us will have to make a sacrifice, Stark. It's him or us. Isn't that what Thanksgiving's about - remembering the generosity of our forefathers?"

"Yeah, but remembering is the safest part. I don't mind remembering. You're closer. My thirty-eight's in the car. _It_ down there might look nice in my freezer."

"Lovely, partner, lovely. The gander might be a one and only beloved, long-cared for pet who belongs to some angel-face of a kid with a rare, terminal illness. He's only protecting what he thinks is his."

"That thing nearly took my leg off! Did you see that thing! Assaulting a police officer is a serious crime! Hutch, will you get on with it! Think thankful! It's Thanksgiving and all this talk about small edible animals is making me hungry. Ravenous, in fact. I might turn into some drooling lunatic from the lack of nourishment."

The gander didn't actually get Starsky in the leg. A little higher and to the side, more like. Which would leave Hutch with the unenviable task of breaking the news to Starsky that he would need to repair his jeans, an item of clothing his dark-haired companion very nearly worshipped. So tight, the pants were a veritable second skin and Starsky did have to do some interesting contortions to get into them. Unique moves that had Hutch thinking kamasutra for singles and the co-ordinatedly challenged.

"Well, partner, I'm all for improvement. Don't let me hold you back. Can you see anything from where you are? Any close neighbors we could signal? You're higher."

Hutch could see the usual things he might expect to see in a barnyard. Sheds, yards, farm machinery, clumps of trees. The flagpole they were on slotted into a mounting plate attached to the side of the barn just under the eave but the gable roof was too steep to climb onto. The angle of the roof resembled a slippery slide in an amusement park, only they wouldn't be laughing if one of them fell from it.

"No. Nuthin'."

"Nothing at all?"

"Well, you know. Nuthin' is about as nuthin' as you can get."

There it was again. The tremor in Starsky's vowels.

Hutch leaned forward to look up past that tear in the denim in order to glimpse Starsky's face and he found that was more difficult to do than he imagined. It was all too easy to look at the things that weren't quite right. Honestly though, in this position it was difficult not to notice. He'd go as far as to say it was impossible not to notice. Thanksgiving usually brought a chill to higher altitudes in Southern California and Starsky had come prepared. He was wearing his red underwear underneath those faded denims, hinting at a character out of season. _How could he not notice_?

Starsky had his eyes shut. Screwed shut. Tight. Like there was nothing in the world that was going to uncork them.

"You right up there, buddy?"

"I would be if you'd start thinking thankful. I told ya to think _thankful_. You aren't helping. If you talk thankful then I might not think about how far it is if I fall. A breath of wind…a sneeze…and, you know, this ain't the most comfortable position in the world."

Starsky was right. He did resemble a forward tumble on the parallel bar held in perpetuity, like a single frame on a roll of film. They'd only been able to reach the flagpole by taking a flying leap from the roof of the old Stubebaker parked by the side of the shed. Getting down was not going to be quite so easy…

"Okay, buddy, okay. Take it easy. Whatever you do, don't look down. Look up. Look somewhere. Don't look down. Thankful…thankful… Hey, I know. Why don't you tell me what you're thankful for? You could do that."

"Me?"

"Yeah, buddy. Tell me about it." Hutch's mind was still working on their immediate problem. Like. _How on earth were they going to get down_? Memories of ganders from his childhood made him instinctively hesitate tackling them. It was an extremely unnerving experience to have a bird that stood as tall as your hip coming at you with a ten foot wingspan in full motion, that orange bill open and emitting the shrieks of a banshee. Even without normal-sized teeth, those things could leave their mark. _And how_.

"I don't need to think about that one."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. No contest." Starsky, perhaps momentarily forgetting where he was, looked down at Hutch. Starsky grinned lopsidedly until his movement altered his centre of gravity and threatened to slide him forwards. Starsky's expression turned to alarm and he floundered and flayed, like a turtle caught on it back. Hutch grabbed the leg of Starsky's jeans to pull downwards, giving his partner a counterbalance.

But what alarmed Hutch more was the ominous creak from the wall as the pole flexed.

"Starsk! Stop! Stop moving!"

"Gunna fall!" Starsky predicted. There were those trembling vowels, again.

"I've got you, buddy. Calm down. Not going to let you."

"What I'm gunna have is a permanent dent in my stomach, Hutch, if we don't get down outa here real soon."

Hutch took a moment to examine what actually held the flagpole to the wall of the barn and assessed the answer as 'not much.' "Well, you know, could come in handy watching the game. Think about it. Somewhere to store the cold one."

"How can I when I'm looking…" The trembling of his vowels was at earthquake proportions.

"Told you not to do that, Starsk. Up. Look up. Thankful, remember. You were thinking thankful."

This immediately relaxed his partner. "Yeah. You're right. _Thankful_…" Starsky sighed loudly again.

"So?" Hutch prompted, when Starsky didn't elaborate. "You were about to share your pearl of wisdom." When Hutch had seen Starsky's grin, he felt a flush of warmth, one of those passing feelings of warmth that comes when someone thinks well of you. His voice mellowed. "So, what is it, pal?" 

"My car," Starsky said, with the grin fully reinstated on his dial.

"Your _car_?"

"You might think of her as a big striped tomato. You might think she resembles a parade float but she ain't just a pretty face. That car's been nearly every place we've been at. Always there. Always backing us up. A trusty stead, Hutch. An urban warrior. Like us. You know, like back in the good old days. Where would I – we – be without it?"

Off-hand, Hutch could think of a number of places. Richer. Faster. More comfortable. "You mean, back before they invented the wheel?"

"Forefathers, Hutch. Come on, we're being thankful. My car makes a certain statement. About me. About us. The cavalry." He made the sound of a trumpet charge.

"With a car that colour you might be mistaken for a redcoat. Though I agree the rebel is more your style."

"Which league?" Starsky said dubiously.

Hutch chuckled. "Before your time, buddy."

"So long as we win."

"Well now, young man, that might depend on which end of the gun you're lookin' at."

The unexpected voice caused Starsky to do his up-turned turtle impersonation again, threatening to tip him head-first onto the ground and Hutch had to grab his leg with both arms to steady him, while keeping one eye on the bolts that kept them from plummeting to earth.

On the ground below them was an elderly woman, a little bent but certainly unbowed, one hand carrying a dish wrapped in a chequered cloth and the other a cane. Rather than quieten at the woman's presence, the protest from the birds got louder.

Hutch beamed his broadest, most winning of smiles, and almost had to shout over the racket the geese was making. "Ah, ma'am. Afternoon, ma'am. That's a nice gaggle of geese, you have there. Do you mind? We sure would appreciate it if you could call them off."

"You found the flagpole. Safest place. Take my word. George brought it home one day, great big thing it is. Don't know where he'd get such a thing. Never flown a flag, naughty of me I know, but folks who drop by sure find it comes in handy."

"Ma'am. The geese…"

"George is never wrong. Hunters. No-good varmints. He knows. Served in the First, you know. And Pearl Harbor. George is never wrong." She went to walk off, padding the ground with a cane in front of her but not for support, more like as a lance to get her through the minefield of goose manure. "The Sheriff'll be seein' to you, shortly. When he's done eatin' his Thanksgiving meal. Which reminds me…"

The woman headed for the Studebaker.

"Ah, ma'am?" Hutch pleaded, still trying to work out what she'd just told him. "We're police officers. Could you help us? Please? Just take George someplace else."

"George ain't ever been wrong in sixty-three years so what's a widow to do with two strangers. Ain't one for killin'. Neither's George, but he had to go."

"Ma'am," Starsky also tried one of his warmest smiles. "It's Thanksgiving and I am a police officer. I served in Vietnam, you know. That was a little after Pearl Harbor. To protect and to serve. That's our motto. And that does mean, in rare moments, killing. But I'm very thankful I don't have to do that, not today. Not most days. Please. George…Would you mind?"

"You came back? Alive? Bless you, son." Then she eyed their car suspiciously. "A lawman? With a car like that? Now, you just didn't tell me little white ones?"

"That's what I keep telling him, ma'am," Hutch said. "But he won't listen."

The woman opened the door to the Studebaker and slid in behind the wheel.

"You must be packin'. You look like hunters. George knows his hunters. Sheriff'll be along to see who you are, for sure. A woman on her own can't be too careful. Good day, to you. Happy Thanksgiving."

"Ma'am. Wait!" Hutch fumbled in his back pocket to get out his ID but it was too late. She started the vehicle and left them in a cloud of blue smoke, crunching second gear as she drove down the drive. Still, the gander and his companions carried on below them.

Starsky sagged. "T'ific. Happy Thanksgiving to you, too. George is wrong. We ain't packin'. I've had it. Can't take much more of this, Hutch. I'm gunna have it out with that overstuffed duck and his harem and take my chances."

"Hate to tell you, partner but geese go in pairs. There's more than one gander down there."

Starsky shifted his position and very nearly overbalanced, which restarted his flaying and trembling vowels, and Hutch scrambled to hold his leg while the bolts holding up the pole creaked ominously.

Hutch held his breath and waited for natural law to be satisfied but when it didn't, he whispered. "S'okay. I'll do it. I'm closer."

"Your back, buddy."

"Well, tis the season. Thinking thankful, remember."

"That's next month."

Hutch was about to let go of Starsky's leg when he smelt something – other than what was on the bottom of his partner's shoe. He moved his head back so he could focus on a long, thin stain near the cuff.

"What did the woman say? About packing? Did you clean your gun, this morning? While wearing these pants?"

Starsky went to look then remembered where he was and screwed his eyes shut. "Yeah, Hutch. Told ya. In the glove compartment."

"So, why isn't the gander making a fuss of your car? It's making a fuss of you."

Starsky grinned. "Yeah, well. That goes without…"

"Maybe George can smell the gun oil. _On you_. Might not be just your total ineptitude with anything country."

"Get out of here! Smell gun oil? You're having me on!"

"Well, Starsk. That thing's been in the First and Pearl Harbor. Detecting an ounce of gun oil should be a piece of cake."

"You believe that! Poor goose, herself."

"Starsk, she's not the one stuck up a flagpole. Maybe there's more than one George, did you think of that? She's just getting them mixed up a bit. Talking of smells, did you catch what was under that cloth?"

"Yeah. Turkey. It ain't fair."

"Thankful, remember. Thankful. If we'd come a couple of days ago you might have had turkeys after you as well."

"So, genius. What now, 'cause I'm goin', I tell you! If this gets 'round the precinct… I got my pride, Hutch."

Hutch was wracking his brains for an answer then had an idea. "If it is the gun oil then maybe if we got rid of it, we might be able to distract George."

"Didn't think to bring the washer."

"You'll have to take off your pants, Starsk."

"Take off my… _No way_." He looked around him anxiously. "No way. No. Way. This isn't your best, Hutchinson. No. Way. Anyway, I can't…need both hands."

"I'll do it. If we throw them as far away as…"

"Hutch. I'm going. I'm going to tackle that thing. Call me anything you like but never a coward. Okay."

Hutch reached up to undo Starsky's jeans. "Come on, pal. There's twenty of them. They'd be all over you before you could pick yourself off the ground. Nothing here I haven't seen before."

"My shoes! Can't get them over my shoes!"

Hutch heard that distinctive groan from the wood of the barn.

"Stop moving around or we'll both hit the deck." Hutch caught each of Starsky's legs and prised off his shoes one after the other, letting them fall to the ground. The gander lowered his head and hissed at each item of footwear as it dropped. "Okay, now the pants."

"Huuuuuttttttch! Not that! Don't! Not the pants!"

"Quit yelling. You're making more noise than what's-his-name down there." Despite protests from Starsky, Hutch unzipped his partner's jeans and peeled them down. There was a moment of tangled action as Hutch tried to get his partner's jeans down and through each of his feet without pulling Starsky off backwards or losing his own balance.

"This better work, Hutch, or so help me. The last indignity. I can see the official report. Killed in action while disarming one mad-as-hell goose – caught without his pants. This is worse than Bellamy."

At the reminder of Starsky's recent brush with death through lethal injection, Hutch stilled for a moment. They'd sure been on the wrong end of that gun often enough this year.

"Nearly there, buddy," Hutch grunted as he pulled the last of the material from Starsky's feet.

Hutch could now gaze up and see the entire lower half of his partner swathed in red. Bright red underwear. Bright red socks.

"Don't you laugh!" he was warned.

Hutch wasn't laughing, he was still thinking thankful. For the bright spot Starsky made in all of his cold, hard days.

"Okay. Let's see what happens." Hutch let the pants down as far as he could reach to dangle them enticingly before George's bill. The gander reacted, alternatively stretching his neck and lowering it to the ground. The others took the hint and joined in, hissing in unison. "Promising, Starsk. Here, good goose. Good gander. Go fetch."

Hutch bundled the pants into a tight ball and threw them as far as he could. They both watched as the jeans sailed through the air, starting out as a ball then coming unwrapped as they traveled. The geese went after them, squawking a tone higher but there was no time to delay. The pants might only give them a little time.

"Wait here," Hutch said.

He swung down on the guy wires, stretching down as far as he could. With the car gone, he would have to drop fully to the ground. He let go, soft-kneed, landing and rolling as he did to take the strain. It was a bit of wrench to the system but he had no time to think about it.

"Huuuuttttch!" Starsky yelled. "Behind you!"

Hutch's calculations had been right. While the object of the bird's hatred did seem to be the pants, they were only a momentarily distraction. George and company were not completely fooled and came back at him, heads outstretched close to the ground, wings whipping them to the speed of an airliner. Hutch didn't stay on the ground for long. He leapt to his feet and sprinted hell for leather. For the Torino.

Hutch beat the gander to the car, diving head-first through the driver's side window that was thankfully wound down, drawing in his legs and rolling down onto the floor, protecting his head as he folded his long length into the front of the seats. The gander landed on the hood with a heavy squelshy _splat_ and motored along the duco using its feet, its bill trying to rivet holes in the windshield, its frustration evident by the volume and pitch of the noise it was making. The one good thing about Starsky keeping his machine in showroom condition was the polish he applied and the gander kept sliding until it went all the way over the other side in a flurry of feathers.

Hutch slowly untangled himself. He could see his bright red partner dangling by his arms from the flagpole. Whether it be on the wrong end of a firearm or an offender's demented dream, it was all a question of perspective. Yeah, he was thankful, all right. They'd survived the year and he had his partner beside him. _What more could he need?_

He started the car and, careful not to hit any of the raging birds, drove the vehicle under where Starsky hung by his hands.

"Come on, Starsk. Drop! Ol' faithful, here'll catch you."

Starsky closed his eyes and let go, landing with a _thump_ and a grunt on the roof of his own car. Hutch winced. That was going to hurt something, hopefully only the metalwork.

"My car! Hutch, my car!" Starsky despaired.

"All in the line of duty, pal," he yelled out the window. "Warriors together, remember."

Hutch wasn't waiting around. He threw the vehicle into gear and took off down the drive, scattering the birds, but not so quickly as to dislodge his passenger. The sound of the outraged geese finally faded into the distance.

"No! Wait! Stop! Hutch! My pants! I can't go…not like this…not without my pants. Hutch!"

Once back on the road, Hutch pulled the Torino to the side and put it into park, letting the engine purr down to idle, letting his nerves settle back to equilibrium. In the rear-view mirror, Hutch saw a Sheriff's vehicle pull into the drive they'd just come down.

Starsky slid so he hung over the side of the Torino, his face upside down in the frame of the window next to Hutch.

"You never did say what you were thinking," Starsky said, his face creased into his trademark lopsided grin.

Hutch raised a hand to brush goose down from his partner's cheek. "I'm thankful you wore clean underwear today, buddy. That's what I've been thinking."

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(_A/N:_ _Turkey facts from factmonster website)_


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